


The Marisu Chronicles

by Doc Marten (DocMarten2525)



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Bars may be lit on fire, Drink will flow and blood will spill and if the boys wanna fight you'd better let 'em, First Edition D&D, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 22:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8914549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DocMarten2525/pseuds/Doc%20Marten
Summary: After many perils, the adventurers finally reach the fabled City of Seven Dark Delights where they hope to lift an ancient curse. But little do they know, their quest is only just beginning...





	1. The Leader of the Band

The small thief twirled his moustache and bowed before the High Seat. He was dressed all in black, the exquisite silks that were his trademark perfectly cut to show off his lean, slim-hipped body to fullest effect. A matched pair of rapier and dagger hung from his hips, and his black, wide-brimmed hat was tipped jauntily over one eye. A black gold band shone darkly on the finger of one hand over the thin leather gauntlet he wore, while around his neck an onyx pendant with the words _"Bombyx Mori"_ graven upon it in a language that had been forgotten before the rising the mountains, sparkled duskily in the light of the smoky torches burning in their cressets on all sides of the Great Room. All eyes were on him as the small group awaited the Lord’s pleasure.

“And what do we have here?" the Lord Gax boomed, twirling a beaker of wine in his hand as he absently fondled the breasts of the naked slave girl who looked adoringly up at him from where she kneeled beside the huge, rough-hewn, obsidian throne. Gax was stripped to the waist and his massive thews shone with fine oils. Glittering blue eyes beneath a lowering black brow frowned down at the group. A mane of square-cut black hair framed his scarred face, and his skin where it showed was seamed with ancient scars. A mighty, two-bited axe rested against the throne, its blade showing the marks of many re-sharpenings. A huge weapon, beyond the ability of any normal man to wield.

“Travellers, sire,” his major domo said, bowing suavely, "come to seek permission to abide within our fair city."

“Lord,” the small thief purred, bowing again, “I and my small band of humble musicians desire to take up residence in this, the fairest of cities, fabled far and wide for its wealth and power, for the wisdom of its mighty ruler and the beauty of its women.”

“Musicians?” the Lord rumbled in a voice that seemed like it came from the depths of an ancient thunderhead towering high over the blue peaks of some distant mountain range. “You look more like a band of ruffians to me, come to plunder our storehouses and ravish our daughters, like my exquisite Gelflette, here.” He gave the girl’s breast a particularly sharp tweak, causing her to jump slightly and squeal with delight.

“Your daughter, sire?”

Lord Gax shrugged his massive shoulders. “After a while, who can tell? But if you are musicians, where are your instruments?”

“Before you, Sire,” the thief rejoined, grinning mischievously. “Save that I play the three-stringed vulva, which, due to its size, I have, perforce, left on my horse, Sandra. But my compatriot, Karst – “ he nodded toward the burly, mail-clad dwarf beside him – “is a Master of the Kazoo of Smiting, having come in second in the Argh-Noparkian regional battle of the bands last year.” Karst growled and hefted his two-handed kazoo, surreptitiously wiping off a trace of blood and brains decorating its business end with the hem of his tattered, wool cloak.

“I see,” said Gax. “And these?”

“This is Dank,” the thief said, pointing to the towering half-ogre behind him. “He plays bass.” Dank grinned, revealing a mouthful of large, complicated teeth in a face of unrelenting ugliness, and waved his spiked bat in the general direction of the throne. “Beside him is his twin brother, Dusty, who sings and is known across the lands for his understated wit.”

“Twin brother?” scoffed Gax. “Are you drunk? I see before me a beauteous elf-maiden, fair as the moonrise, her eyes like the reflection of stars shining in a darkling mere in distant Gondhhoria.”

“A sad story, Sir Guy,” the thief said, bowing once again, “but one that has been told and re-told all across the West lo these many years, wherever Men and Elves gather to raise a horn of ale and sing the ancient tales. Suffice to say that when born, they were as alike as two peas in a pod, albeit grotesquely ugly peas, as you might imagine. Indeed, it is said the stars wept at their birth, and that a fit came upon their mother and she killed herself with a three-legged stool, as foretold in prophecy. On their 16th birthday, an enchanter came and cast a mighty spell, changing Dusty to this form which he carries to this day. It is our hope, Great Lord, that we shall find here in your fabled city the means to lift this strange curse.”

“Indeed.” Gax glowered down at the diminutive thief. And you? Who are you, little vulvateen rabbit? You speak much on behalf of your friends. Are you their leader?”

The thief bowed yet again. “I am Trefoil, known by many as the Marisu.”

“Ah. I have heard of your kind before. It does not surprise me that you are the leader of the party. It was ever thus, with the Marisus.”

“Lord, I should tell you that there are others in our group who are not present. They are in my backpack, having been magically transformed into small statuettes because they couldn’t come tonight.”

Gax nodded again. “A wise precaution,” he said, tweaking the slave girl’s breast again. “You may enter my lands, subject to your solemn word that you will floss regularly, obey all laws, and keep to the right when approaching oncoming traffic.”

“Indeed, sire. Dental hygiene is our watchword.” The guards flanking the door grounded their pikes and took a step to the side so that they might pass. With a final bow, the group left.

After they were gone, Gax held out his beaker for more wine and pondered what he had learned. A naked, barefoot, slave padded silently from the shadows behind the throne, the golden chain belted around her waist that was her only attire jingling noiselessly, and poured mixed wine from her ornate jugs. Gax regarded the beaker. It was carved from the skull of a mythic hero of ancient times and, strangely, came as a matched set. There was, he thought, a moral in there somewhere.

 

-000-


	2. As Foretold  in Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The adventurers roister onwards in search of lodgings and plot complications.

“And that, my dear compatriots, is how it is done,” said the halfling cockily, adjusting his large-brimmed hat as they walked out into the bright sun of a day that was likely past 1:00 but certainly not yet anywhere near 2:00.

“You’re kidding, right?” growled Dusty in the deepest and yet most melodic of voices. “You really think you fooled Lord Gax with that story about us being musicians?” Dusty walked up to his horse, Scotty, and unhitched him from the post. The half-ogre flipped back his long, curly red hair and adjusted his chainmail bikini. It was chaffing him again.

“Of course not,” said Trefoil with a sly smile. “I know perfectly well that Lord Gax knows we aren’t musicians. Or at least not ONLY musicians,” he added, looking at his three stringed vulva, still firmly attached to the horn of Sandy’s saddle, and fantasized for a moment about plucking its strings in the privacy of his room, once he got one. He bit his lip and turned jauntily back to Dusty. “But I have intrigued him enough that he wishes to find out what we are really up to, thus he is letting us stay. If he really thought we were musicians, he’d have already sent us off to the Musicians Guild to join up and pay our dues so he could have his cut.” Trefoil twirled his moustache thoughtfully, “No, Lord Gax is as intrigued with us as I am about Gelflette.” Here the thief rubbed his … er … hands together (yes, that works, run with it) and his eyes took on a faraway and yet slightly sinister look.

“He’ll have us watched day and night!” exclaimed Dusty. “How in the world can we do that ... that thing we need to do if there are spies watching our every move?” Suddenly Dusty looked suddenly panicked and suddenly moved his head suddenly around to the right, then suddenly back to the left, suddenly causing his supple chainmail-bikini-clad breasts to suddenly flounch prettily. His bright green eyes grew wide from beneath his long curly red hair. “They’re probably already watching us right now!”

Dank scratched his head and stared at Dusty’s flounchy chest.

“Let ‘em watch,” said Karst in an accent that would surprise no Salvatorian, should there have been any nearby to hear it. “Ah prefer ta take ‘em all down in a fight than all this sneakin’ aroond and lyin’ and subber… septer… subter… lyin’!”

“Quit looking at my chest you moron,” Dusty berated his brother.

“But dey so flounchy,” Dank drooled, unable to turn away. “Dey look like big, ripe humshrooms.” He reached out a hand slowly in their direction, fingers splayed like the end of the tentacles of a Gnarleybeast.

“I swear,” Dusty angrily addressed his brother, causing the latter to snap his own eyes from where they had already lingered for too long up to his brother’s bright green ones. “When I get changed back, I will rip your arms off!”

“Uhm, Dusty,” interjected Trefoil. “You’re forgetting again.”

Dusty looked confused for a moment, then his eyes widened in understanding. “Augh. Thanks, Trefoil. The curse is getting worse. I’m really starting to think I’m a half-ogre.”

“And what did we learn?” Trefoil asked in a sing-song fatherly voice.

“Not to wish for a fantastic singing voice from a demon who is being forced to grant wishes,” Dusty answered in rote like a school child reciting his morning pledge to the Gods. “I know, I know. I miss my squeaky, off key, non-elflike but at least feminine voice. Being the only elf in my tribe who can’t carry a tune without a bucket to pour it into first was still better than sounding like Robert Goulet. But that was just a stupid wish I can undo some day. This added curse bit where I’m starting to think I really am a transmogrified half-ogre is the worst of it. We really do need to find out how to lift that part of the curse, as you told Lord Gax.”

“Ye two shouldna talk aboo’ tha’ when Dank be listenin’,” interjected Karst as he took a running jump onto his war pony, Arlee. “He’s a lot easier to control when ye got ‘im thinkin’ ye be his brother.”

“He’s not even listening,” said Trefoil, lazily climbing up the silk rope ladder he had had fitted specially for Sandra’s flank. Indeed, Dank had gone back to a mindless drool at his “brother’s” chest, one foot in a stirrup and the other still on the ground.

Dusty mounted her horse (wait - can we use feminine pronouns for him… er… her now? We’ve revealed the true nature of the curse, right? Or have we? Even I’m confused) and the group began riding toward the Foreign Quarter to seek lodgings for their stay. Dank came back to reality a moment later, as there was no longer anything to stare at, and he quickly mounted up and caught up with the group.

As they rode away from Gax’s estate, a shadow detached itself from a nearby darkened crook. It skulked as fast as it could from shadow to shadow, back to another shadow, that was shaded by a shadow in some shadowy shade.

“What have you discovered, Pip?” rasped the shadow that the other shadow had skulked to.

“It truly is she, master,” rasped back the shadow that had skulked to the shadow who first spoke but had not yet skulked and had remained in one place to await the skulking of the other shadow through the shadows. “As foretold in prophecy.”

“Excellent. When we heard the story of how she had addressed the guards at the gate with the lowest of low voices of that of a large man despite her beauty, I thought it might be so. Come Pip. We have much work to do.”


	3. The Fight in the Tavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysterious strangers at the Sign of the Green Tables.

The narrow alleys of the Foreign Quarter bustled with activity. Merchants called their wares from stalls crammed together on every side: vendors of silks and spices, of fine blades and willing slaves; wine merchants and beer sellers and dealers in every good or service imaginable vied with each other for the attention of the crowds. Above it all rose the reek of a thousand cooking fires and forges, the smells of food and drink from a hundred far-flung kingdoms and the babble of a thousand tongues, here in that most fabled of places, the legendary Foreign Quarter in the storied City of Seven Dark Delights.

“We’ll ne’er find a place ta park,” Karst grumbled, guiding his pony past a tall, vacant-eyed slave girl undulating seductively before the doorway of a large tent, her invitingly-cut silken robes alternately concealing and revealing the supple body beneath. A wine merchant ran after them, extolling his wares while hordes of small children tugged at their stirrups and offered to lead them to the finest shops, the most beautiful girls, the cleverest of sorcerers and diviners. Karst kicked several of the most persistent in the head, whereupon the others fled.

“Where are we going?” Dusty asked, spurring her horse up beside Trefoil. He had a map out and was puzzling over it.

“I’m not sure about this map,” he said, turning it upside down and squinting. He pointed to a large “X” marked on it near the centre. “Here, I think. It’s either a pirate treasure or a bar, so it works either way.”

“Well I hope it’s an inn,” Dusty said. “I’m hot and tired and I’ve got sand in places I never realized you could get sand in before. I need a cold drink and a hot bath. Maybe not in that order. Plus, my armour is chafing.” She reached her fingers inside her chainmail breast cups to re-adjust the fit, causing Dank to fall backwards off his giant riding ox, Cerulean. Dusty rolled her eyes. “The sooner we can lift my curse, the better,” she said, although truth be told she was by this time not entirely sure which curse they were trying to lift or what the result would be when they did.

Trefoil patted her hand. “It will be fine,” he said. He pointed. “Look yonder! “

The crowded alleys of the marketplace opened up into a wide square, ringed with inns and hostelries of every description and catering to every imaginable taste and desire. For this was the City of Seven Dark Delights, the fabled Cimarron; called by the elves Magentelane, Gomorrah of the West; the Great Whore herself, City of a Thousand Mysteries, which held court like a vile blot upon the land in that long ago time before the waters finally rose up in righteousness and washed it and all its iniquity into the sea. But that would be many years in the future. On this bright, sunswept afternoon, the city called Wicked ruled the Kingdoms of the West like a dark queen seated upon a throne of blood.

Trefoil reined up his pony. “This is it,” he called. “The Green Tables Inn.”

“This dump is where we’re staying?” Dusty said in dismay. “Couldn’t you have found us somewhere a bit nicer?” She looked around. In desperate need of new shingles and a fresh coat of paint, its windows grimy and shutters hanging drunkenly on rusted hinges, it was, Trefoil admitted to himself, rather shabby and presented a somewhat sinister aspect compared to the much grander hotels around it.

 “Quit yer complaining, woman,” growled Karst, the dwarf, climbing stiffly down. “As long as the beer’s cold and the food isn’t moving around too quickly on the plate, I dinna care what it looks like.” He fixed his pony with a grumpy look. “And the longer it is before I have to climb up on this devil-beast again, the happier I’ll be, too.” The pony stared back at him, clearly sharing the sentiment.

“Fine.” Dusty also dismounted, the spurs on her high, leather boots jingling as she swung a leg over the saddle and lightly dropped down. She shook out her long, golden hair, then bent deeply at the waist to stretch out the muscles in her legs, reaching back as she did to massage some feeling into her tanned thighs and chainmail-clad buttocks. “At least it’s better than that fleabag we stayed in last night,” she added over her shoulder. From the back of the party there was a crash as Dank fell off his war-ox.

Trefoil let his rope ladder unroll to the ground and climbed down. “Look,” he said, “if you’ve got such a problem with it, then how about next time you book the hotels? Besides, this was all we could afford, thanks. It might be different if someone wasn’t such a prude. We could have made a killing in those last two towns.”

“As if,” Dusty said, shouldering her pack and handing over her reins to one of the grooms coming out to meet them. With a toss of her head she flounced off up the steps to the main doors of the hotel. There was a loud crash from the back of the party.

Trefoil sighed. “Karst, help Dank up if you don’t mind, then let’s get our gear stowed and we can take a look around.”

Just then a mysteriously small boy stepped out in front of them, appearing as if from thin air. He was barefoot and clad in rags, and there was a strange look in his piercing blue eyes as if someone else’s soul looked out from them. Trefoil stepped back in surprise and clapped a hand on the hilt of his rapier. “What sorcery is this?” he demanded, eyes narrowing. “Where did you come from, boy? Speak up!”

“Beware!” the boy hissed in a strange, sibilant voice. “Beware the darkness that lies at the bottom of the bitter cup!”

“How say you? ” Trefoil demanded. “Do you mean the beer here is no good?”

“Fool!” the boy sneered. “You are summoned! When the bell tolls the midnight hour, come thee to the Yorgun Bar. Do not be late.” And with that, he disappeared.

“Flounchy,” said Dank, thinking about Dusty’s breasts.


	4. The Metal

The party entered the Green Tables Inn single file, Karst making sure he walked behind Dusty but in front of Dank. Karst was immune to the pretty elf’s charms. Karst found her to not be an unpleasant creature to view, but she had no shoulders at all and was far too tall for him to take any other interest in her than just a companion for the road.

Trefoil lead the way, as usual, and Karst was fine with that. Karst liked having the halfling as the party leader. Less thinking about the subtle interactions of humans and other be-brained creatures meant more room in his own brain for thoughts of battle and the inevitable fuzziness of ale-induced brain dehydration. Which reminded Karst – he was thirsty. Gaining a chair at one of the “green tables” and ordering three pints (to start) took over all other thoughts and was now weighing heavily upon his mind.

Except all of the tables were purple. As the dwarf stopped to ponder this twist and Trefoil and Dusty continued forward, Dusty’s hips swaying just a little too much to be “natural” (she was probably playing the room), Dank’s spiked club bumped between his shoulder blades as Dank failed to stop as well.

“Git yer spike club stowed away in yer back scabbard,” growled the dwarf without turning around.

“We’ve talked about this before, Dank. Yer in a public place.”

“That’s not my spiked club,” said Dank in a faraway voice, watching his brother’s swaying hips round a purple table and head for the bar, and reaching behind his head to pat his spiked club, firmly rooted in his back scabbard, as they had talked about before.

“Well, tha’s distressing,” murmured  Krast, stepping forward and to one side and deliberately not glancing back. “Le’s get a table and wait for them ta come back.”

While Krast and Dank were getting settled and trying to find a wench from which to order ale, Dusty followed Trefoil up to the bar.

“My good man,” said Trefoil loudly, clambering up on a bar stool to gain an eye-level vantage point with the innkeeper behind the bar. “We require accommodations for an extended but indeterminate sojourn.”

The man behind the bar was in his late 40s and somewhat overweight. His dark eyes were rheumed over with rheumy rheums and his face was blotched with some sort of blotchy blotches. His hair was mostly gone on the top of his skull, but he had let it grow overly long on the right side and had carefully laid it flat over the top. The process seemed to be based on the idea that he would then look like he had hair, but the effect was exactly the opposite. He turned his bulky bulk around to look at the Halfling, blinking his filmy eyes and laying his hair back down, which had flipped up at the motion. “You want a wha…?”

“We’d like a room,” said Dusty in her deep, sonorous, male voice, surprising the innkeeper with the incongruity of it all.

“Uh…” the innkeeper stammered incoherently, now staring distractedly at the flesh valley nestled between the chainmail mountains, like every other male Dusty ever encountered, and more than a few females. On the one hand, Dusty thought it might be nice someday to get some real armour, but on the other hand, this set was good for discounts, gaining information, and was as effective of a distraction in battle as full metal armour would be to turn away blows and pointy objects. Maybe even more so.

“A room, my good man,” said Trefoil, trying to hurry things along.

“You makin’ fun of my eyes?” he growled, turning to the Halfling.

“Huh?” Trefoil asked, confused. Then he brightened, “Oh, no! I said a room, not a rheum.”

“Oh, you want a room.”

“That is what I have been saying, you fool.”

“How many will be staying, and for how long?”

“We don’t know how long we’ll be here, so we’d like to pay by the week and renew as we go. As for how many, there are four of us…”  
Trefoil was interrupted by a commotion in his backpack. As odd as that might sound, it is a regular occurrence in adventuring circles. If you ever become an adventurer, be prepared for it.

“Damn,” said Trefoil, setting down his backpack quickly and flipping open the flap. “Hold that last part. I think we may need more.”

Out of the open backpack rolled a small metal figurine. It was already larger than it was when Trefoil had stowed it there, and was now animated. The silvery colour of the metal was rapidly being replaced by differing colours of the spectrum, and now that it was free of the backpack, it grew rapidly in size.

“Oh great,” muttered Trefoil, seeing which figurine was growing. “Of all the party members…”

“Be polite,” grinned Dusty, thinking how interesting this stay at the inn might be after all.

A chainmail clad human stood before them now, shaking off the rigours of too much time spent as a 1” metal figurine stashed in a backpack (it can really do a number on you – trust me, I know from experience). His blue eyes sat intensely below his somewhat protrusive brow, and they scanned the room as he put his hand upon the ornate handle a four-flanged mace attached to his belt. His tunic and hose were blue with the symbol of half a sun, either coming up or going down above/below an horizon embroidered in yellow upon said tunic. He appeared to be in his early 30s, but his hair was shaved on top, leaving only a tonsure that thus far exhibited no grey.

“Where’s that blasted fairy dragon?” he blurted, clearly confused. He then seemed to get his bearings and relax. “Ah. Dusty. It is you,” he said, apparently ignoring Trefoil completely. “Where have we gotten to now?”

“Five,” said Trefoil to the innkeeper, after a moment of watching the backpack to see if any other figurines were about to blossom. “A single room for four of us and a single room for our elf would work the best.

“Greetings, Mulgar,” said Dusty. “We’re in Wicked at the Green Tables Inn. How was the metal?” The group used the term “the metal” to indicate any time spent as a figurine. Nobody ever remembered their time as “the metal”, but it was considered polite to ask.

“I remember nothing,” Mulgar gave the common reply, looking around for green tables and finding only purple ones. “Any sign of that blasted fairy dragon?”


	5. The Indefinite Article

The sleeping arrangements having been hammered out, Trefoil turned to survey the long, low-ceilinged taproom. Even now, in daylight, it was lit mostly by candles and guttering oil lamps that smoked and flamed greasily, and the heavy beams that crossed the ceiling were blackened with the soot of centuries. Trestle tables lined the walls with smaller round tables scattered across the middle of the room. Chipped shields bearing faded, heraldic designs decorated the walls at intervals, with here and there a set of crossed spears or swords to add to the martial motif. At the far end of the room was an open space before a huge, blazing fire in an ancient, stone hearth where the carcass of a pig turned slowly on a spit worked by a small boy. A huge iron pot full of an aromatic vegetable stew bubbled and steamed next to it. Now and then one of the serving girls came by to slice off some meat and dip out a bowl of stew, while at the bar the innkeeper’s assistants were busy pouring beer and wine.

It was approaching the supper hour and the room was filling rapidly. Trefoil noted with approval that Karst and Dank had commandeered one of the long trestle tables close to the doors. It was a mixed crowd – olive-skinned, hook-nosed merchants from the bazaar, conspicuous in their long robes and oiled beards, jostled for space with tall, bearded nomads from the icy northern steppes. A group of farmers in town to sell their produce stood blinking uncertainly in the gloom, seemingly overawed by the bright lights and pungent smells of the big city. In a far corner, a group of oddly-dressed, pasty-faced men were doing something complicated with dice and small figurines, completely oblivious to the wistful glances of the trio of naked slave girls at the next table, while beside them a group of adventurers were divvying up loot. A giant, blonde-haired barbarian sat at a corner table engrossed in conversation with a much smaller, dark-haired man clad all in grey, some kind of map or plan spread out on the table between them. 

Trefoil snagged a beer from a passing tray and leaned against the bar, listening to the rise and fall of conversation. “...fucking Tomb of Horrors all over again…” “’THACO?’ I says, ‘what the hell’s a THACO?’” “I told her not to bother. Guy’s so far in the closet he can probably see all the way to Narnia.” Trefoil sipped his beer. It was quite good in spite of the mysterious warning they’d received, and he took another long draught, draining it completely. He called for another then beckoned to Mulgar and the two went to join the others at the table.

Mulgar stopped suddenly. “Whom do you suppose that is?” he said, pointing toward the door. The small knot of farmers had finally found a table and now, limned in the open doorway, stood the figure of a mighty stranger. 

The room fell suddenly silent as he stepped through, outlined for a moment in a halo of pure gold by the light streaming past him into the smoky gloom of the bar. He was tall – easily the tallest human Trefoil had ever seen, nearly as tall as Dank, who stood just over seven feet, and he stood there, feet planted wide as he surveyed the room. He was broad-shouldered and clear-eyed, clad all in shining mail, a surcoat of purest white bearing an armourial crest worked in red and gold. In one arm he cradled a plumed war-helmet while the pommel of a giant, two-handed sword poked up over his shoulder. His face was long and dark beneath a noble brow, and there was a grim sadness in the glance which he swept across the room, as if he laboured beneath the shadow of some ancient tragedy. After a long moment, he stepped forward, then stopped as if unsure. He looked around again, seeking an empty chair. 

“Is this seat taken?” he asked Dusty in a voice like the rumble of a distant avalanche. 

She blinked rapidly up at him, her bosom heaving. “Uh, what?” she said.

“The seat,” he repeated. “Is there someone sitting here, or may I join you?”

“Sit? Yes, sit. Absolutely.”

He looked at her oddly. “I don’t wish to intrude,” he said.

“Oh god, I wish you would,” she answered quickly. “Sorry, I mean… Not at all, Sir Paladin. We’d be honoured to have you join us.” She scooted over slightly to make a space for him on the end of the bench beside her, tossing her long, raven-dark hair and fluttering her eyelashes enthusiastically. 

“Dusty, lass,” Karst interjected laconically from beside her. “While I’ve nay wish to interfere, dinna you think Trefoil is the one to decide these things? He is the Marisu, after all.”

“Fuck Trefoil,” Dusty snarled. She turned back to smile sweetly at the paladin, who was about to sit down. “My, what incredibly large hands you have,” she observed, trying with very little success to pitch her voice a bit higher.

“Er, thank you,” the paladin answered. He straightened up again. “But am I correct in my understanding of the words of this fine Dwarf, that you have a Marisu in your party? It would, perhaps, be more appropriate were I to make my introductions to him first? Or maybe I could just sit here and wait for him?”

“Exactly.” Dusty reached up and yanked him unceremoniously down on the bench beside her. She smiled, flounching slightly. “Hi,” she said. “Come here often?”

“Er, yes, occasionally. I mean, sometimes. No, not really.” The paladin – for such he was, one of that ancient race of chaste, holy warriors who, sworn in the service of Purity, stand astride the world, bringing battle to the enemies of the Good wheresoever they might find them – was having some difficulty tearing his eyes off of Dusty’s impressive superstructure, which threatened to escape at any moment the constraints of her chainmail bandeau. 

To the paladin’s considerable relief, Trefoil and Mulgar arrived just then. Introductions were made and, Jorje, as the paladin was called, was invited to come adventuring with the group, which, since the unfortunate mishap that had earlier befallen the aptly-named Shreddie, was short a fighter in any case.

Just then the head waiter arrived and handed out menus before taking dinner and drink orders. The paladin was the last to order, and he sat there for a long moment, staring at the menu

“Um,” he said.

“Sir is welcome to take all the time he wishes,” the waiter said unctuously. 

The paladin leafed through the menu, a frown on his face. Finally he pointed: “I’ll have the special, I guess.”

“An excellent choice,” replied the waiter. “And would sir prefer the fish special, or the chicken?”

The giant paladin made a face. “I – I don’t know. The fish, I guess.” 

The waiter made a mark on his pad. “Very good,” he murmured. “Now, will sir prefer the baked, mashed, or french fried potatoes?” 

A bead of sweat appeared on the paladin’s forehead. “That’s an interesting question,” he said, stalling for time. He glanced nervously around the room. Conversations, which had started up again, were beginning to fall silent, and here and there patrons were nudging each other.

“The baked, I guess,” he finally answered. “No, wait, mashed. No, french fries. Better make it mashed.” 

“Lemon, garlic or regular?” 

“What?”

“Would sir prefer the lemon mashed, garlic mashed, or regular mashed potatoes?”

“Uhhh…. regular, I guess. No, lemon. With gravy,” he added, to forestall the next question. 

The waiter lifted one eyebrow and pursed his lips, making a little note on his pad.

“Is there a problem?” said the paladin.

“Certainly not,” answered the waiter. “Except…”

“What?”

“Gravy, sir? With fish? Is sir absolutely sure that’s what he wishes? Not that I’m not completely happy to bring anything sir wishes, provided sir is certain that is what sir wants. The customer is always right, of course.” 

“Yes he is, dammit,” Jorje answered, his face reddening. The room was completely silent now. Somewhere, a pin dropped.

The waiter made a face. “Very well. But perhaps sir would prefer his gravy in a little bowl on the side? Just in case?”

The paladin smashed his mailed fist down on the table, causing the dishes to jump and the silverware to rattle. “In the name of all that’s holy!” he roared. “Must we go through this every single time? A joint of meat and a flagon of ale will be sufficient!” 

The waiter sighed, tearing off the top page of his pad and folding it neatly several times before putting it carefully into his jacket pocket. He looked up and smiled bleakly at the paladin. “How would sir like his joint of meat cooked?” 

The paladin closed his eyes. “Well done,” he groaned. 

“Excellent.” The waiter made another mark. “And will that be a large flagon of ale, or small?”

The paladin sputtered. “Large,” he finally said, guessing wildly.

“Very good,” the waiter replied, closing his order book. “I’ll be back right away with your drinks.”

The paladin sighed with relief. The waiter turned back. “I’m sorry – I nearly forgot. Would sir like his soup before the meal, or with it?”

“Soup? There’s soup?” 

“Of course, sir.” 

The paladin moaned and slid to the floor as the room erupted in applause. There was a clink of money changing hands as bets were paid off, and the waiter turned to the crowd, inclining his head graciously. 

“Indecision is goin’ ta be the death of tha’ paladin,” Karst observed prophetically, taking a swig of his mead.


	6. Legal Troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Our Heroes discover themselves in Water most Hot. Or do they?

“The common room of The Green Tables was overrun with violence. Karst was swinging a flaming three-legged stool over his head and threatening a table of terrified farmers that he’d beat them senseless then feed them their turnips through their arses. Mulgar had taken two shields off the walls and, one on each arm, was smashing tavern patrons to the ground and yelling at the top of his lungs that he’d invoke his deity’s wrath and cast Turn Drunkard on the entire room. Dank had been transmogrified into a sheep in rut and was furiously attempting to copulate with an unconscious barbarian wearing a wool vest. The paladin, Jorje, was banging his head against a table, weeping, ‘Why does this always happen to me?’ while three city guards lay on the floorboards around him, bleeding and incapacitated by his hand. Six more city guards had taken up position behind trestle tables and were peppering the room with crossbow bolts — _flaming_ crossbow bolts. And Trefoil the Marisu was wrestling for control of a Wand Of Bowel Combustion with one of Lord Gax’s Own Combat Artificers. Have I described the scene accurately?”

“You have,” said Dusty. She sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair behind a low railing, her wrists and ankles shackled.

“And what were you doing?” asked the Advocate for the Defence. He was a short man in an elaborate velvet robe. His powdered wig was nearly as tall as himself.

“I was standing on a table having just pinned a guard’s ear to a ceiling beam with my dagger.”

“You… ah… How did that work, exactly?” asked the Advocate.

Dusty made a grabbing and lifting gesture with one hand then an upward stabbing motion with the other. The Advocate shuddered. A woman seated in the courtroom gallery gasped loudly and fainted.

“But it was at this point that you nobly brought all the violence in the inn to an end, was it not?” asked the Advocate for the Defence. “How did you accomplish this feat?”

Dusty turned to the Lord’s Magistrate, a gelatinous-looking old man, his warty skin barely contained beneath his robes and wig. “Do I have to say?” she asked.

The Magistrate smiled kindly down at her, “I’m afraid you do, my dear.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “I took off my top,” she said in her deep, ogrish voice.

Seated at a long table across from her, a similarly shackled Trefoil applauded.

“Order!” shouted the judge.

Trefoil made a key-in-a-lock motion over his lips. Karst, also shackled and seated next to him, elbowed the halfling in the side. Next to him, Jorje’s head dropped to the table while Mulgar held back a snicker and Dank stared up at the ceiling, lost in a revery. The half-ogre’s hair still retained a wooly curl.

The Advocate for the Defence cleared his throat, “And, at this time, Lord Gax’s Own Sorcerer Of Enforcement was standing where exactly?”

“He was by the entrance. Behind the guards with the crossbows,” said Dusty. “He shouted that he’d had enough and started casting another spell. If I had to guess, it looked like Cloud Of Caustic Confetti.”

“Objection! Supposition!” interrupted the Lord’s Advocate, a lean, weasel-like man who lolled behind his table on the other side of the courtroom. He thrust a lanky arm in the air to punctuate his argument. “This woman is clearly a fighting class. There is no way she’s proficient in arcane lore.”

“Sustained,” said the Magistrate.

The Advocate for the Defence carried on. “Very well, then, as you said, the Sorcerer Of Enforcement was in the process of casting a spell of some sort. But before he could complete the incantation, what happened?”

“The Wand Of Bowel Combustion went off,” said Dusty. 

“And whom did it hit?” 

“The Lord’s Own Sorcerer Of Enforcement.” 

“And who was holding the Wand Of Bowel Combustion at this time? Exactly?” 

“It was still being held between Trefoil and your Artificer.” 

“So you have no way of knowing who in fact activated the Wand of Bowel Combustion?” 

“I do not.” 

“But it’s safe to say the Wand Of Bowel Combustion was the instrument of the Sorcerer’s rather… um… grisly demise?” 

“You don’t come back from a combusted bowel,” said Dusty. 

“Um… no more questions,” concluded the Advocate For The Defence. “Your witness.” 

The Lord’s Advocate lazily rolled his head around to look up at the Magistrate. “She’s said enough,” he said. “I have no questions.”

The Magistrate smiled down at Dusty. “Well then, my dear. You may return to—”

“M’lud, if I may,” interrupted the Advocate for the Defence. He was holding a heavy tome open to a page in the middle. A gnome clerk trotted away. 

“What is it?” asked the judge, a little testily. 

“A piece of evidence I’ve just been handed that I’d like to enter into the record. It’s with regards to the disposition of this accused and may bear upon her companion accused as well.” 

“Get on with it.” 

“It’s the matter of a prophecy, m’lud. A complication, I’m afraid. I’ve been informed that due to the curse upon her — the… erm… _ensorcelled_ nature of her appearance and voice — that she may well be the one mentioned in—” The Advocate scanned down the page with one finger until he stopped at an entry. “—in prophecy number 153, chapter 23 of the—” he flipped the cover of the book over and read: “The Book Of Common Augury. Volume three.” He flipped back to the marked page. “It says here, ‘And lo, the beauteous one who was not beauteous once will come speaking like a—”

“Yes, yes! _Blah, blah, blah_ ,” belched the Magistrate. “And the rivers will run with blood and doom will come to the lovers of cheese and there will be great suffering among the candlestick makers. I’ve read a prophecy or two before, Advocate. What of it?”

“Well, m’lud,” continued the Advocate, still reading from the book. “It mentions here that the beauteous one will be accompanied by the Companions Five. And, there _are_ these five here: her companions. Just like the book says. And, well, if your honour were to lock them all up you might interfere with the smooth functioning of prophecy. And… well… then almost _anything_ could happen.” 

The Magistrate slammed a meaty fist onto his podium. “Pah! The scribblings of madmen will not interfere with this court. There are so damnably many prophecies and prognostications, if we paid attention to even a fraction we’d never get anything done. Overruled!” The judge swept a hand past Dusty towards the table where her companions waited. “You! Pretty one! Sit!” 

Dusty obeyed. Her manacles clanking noisily as she hobbled back to the table of the accused.

“Well, then,” said the Advocate for the Defence. “I would like to call as a final witness, the accused named Trefoil of the Marisus.” 

“Finally!” shouted Trefoil as he leapt from his seat and hopped enthusiastically across the courtroom and plunked himself down in the wooden chair next to the Magistrate’s bench. Then, after Trefoil said the Oath of Honesty to All The Gods of Judgment, Retribution and Just Desserts, the blubberous old judge leaned down to him, “It is getting close to dinner, halfling. I do hope you can clear up this mess.” 

Trefoil the Marisu rubbed his hands together and an evil grin spread across his face. “Oh, I think I can do that. I’ll clear things _riiiiight_ up.”

* * * * *

A massive, iron cell door slammed shut on the downcast faces of Dusty, Dank, Karst, Mulgar and Jorje.

And on the not-so downcast face of Trefoil the Marisu. 

“ _Bwah ha ha ha!_ ” laughed their hulking, half-orc gaoler, a creature remarkable in that his forehead, during some long past battle, had been caved in by the iron ball of a morningstar and yet somehow he’d survived, his sense of humour intact and the iron ball as well as it was still lodged where it had landed. “You kill Lord Gax’s magic man, you die in Lord Gax’s deepest, darkest, dankest dungeon! Get comfortable, dumbos. This door won’t open until you’re a pile of bones. _Ha ha ha!_ ” 

The gaoler stomped away down the long corridor leaving only a flickering stump of a candle behind for light. 

“Great! Just great!” said Dusty. “You just had to tell them you set off the wand!” 

“Well, it was the truth,” said Trefoil. “I set it off and made sure to aim it at that ridiculous sorcerer too. Pompous arse. Had it coming.” 

Dusty stared at him a moment, dumbfounded. “Today,” she said, her gravelly voice reaching something approaching a squeak. “He decides to become an honest man. Today of all days. And now we’re locked up here as accessories to murder. No equipment. No appeals. No hope.” 

“I could smash you to a pulp, Trefoil,” growled Dank. 

“If I wasn’t a man of the cloth, I’d help him,” said Mulgar. 

“I don’t even remember why that bar fight broke out,” muttered Karst. 

“When the masters of my order hear what depths of depravity I’ve sunk to, they’ll strip me of my titles and cast me out,” moaned Jorje. 

“Fellows, please,” said Trefoil. “We are _exactly_ where we want to be right now: far away from silly prophecies and ominous summonses to the Yorgun Bar, locked up safe in Lord Gax’s deepest, darkest, dankest dungeon. Have a little faith.” 

“What are you talking about, Trefoil?” asked the dwarf, suspiciously. 

“You’ll have to turn around to find out,” replied Trefoil. 

“What?” 

“Turn around,” Trefoil twiddled a finger in the air. 

The group reluctantly turned their backs on the halfling and listened as he grunted and shuffled behind them. 

“You’d better be picking that lock with your needle dick,” said Dusty. 

“Better than that,” he replied. “You can turn back now.” 

They complied and saw that, in his palm, Trefoil held aloft a small metal figurine of a donkey, it’s back laden with tiny bags and chests. It glittered with magic. 

“Sir Heehaw!” shouted Dank, clapping happily. 

“Where did you hide that?” asked Dusty. 

“You really don’t want to know,” said Trefoil. Already, the little metal figurine was beginning to grow. Trefoil hustled past his companions towards the back of the cell. He set the figure down next to a wide grating in the floor. In moments the figurine was full sized and restored to life. 

Sir Heehaw the donkey shook his ears and brayed. 

“Is that… on his back?” wondered Mulgar. 

“Yes, kind Mulgar, _that_ is our backup gear,” grinned Trefoil. 

“So we can break out of here?” asked Dusty. 

“Not exactly,” said Trefoil. He gestured at the grating. It was made of thick iron bars and covered a three-foot wide hole in the floor, that went straight down into the rock. The group crouched around it. “Listen,” whispered Trefoil. 

As a group, they put their ears up to the grating and from deep below they could hear faint shrieks and growls and the distant clang of metal. 

“This is the drainage tunnel,” said Trefoil. “Every dungeon cell has one. They shovel all the prisoners’ waste into them. Eventually even the prisoners’ bones. But the drainage tunnels of Lord Gax’s dungeons lead directly into the Caverns Of Twisting Terror, a place of incalculable danger but also of incomprehensible riches. No prisoner has ever attempted to escape this way because, being prisoners, they’re dressed in rags and armed with nothing but their own dung.” 

Trefoil stood, and spread his arms in triumph. “But _we_ have Sir Heehaw.”


End file.
